as time goes by
by wreckofherheart
Summary: But it is her she came to see. [Natasha/Peggy]


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**author's note**: Before reading this oneshot, please be aware that this story is set in an alternate universe and doesn't strictly follow the canon timeline. Even though this is written during the second world war, Steve Rogers is never mentioned. Here, I'm implying he doesn't exist in this story. Plus, I've really meddled with when the Red Room is established during Peggy's lifetime. So, yes, this story is an alternate universe. I really do hope you enjoy it, regardless, and please leave some feedback telling me your thoughts.

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Before the war, she's excited and stupid.

This is all duty, and honour and bullshit. The training is cruel. Recruits fall to the side, trampled on and left to rot. Dirt infects their mouths. Eyes burn. Legs _snap_. It's the tears which hurt the most. Scorching their muddy cheeks, washing away ugly reminders of their inevitable fate.

Death looms ever nearer.

She is twenty two when she first meets the Widow. The female barracks are stuffy, and the dark is silent and eerie. A window is open. Sometimes she hears the rustle of leaves, or maybe it's her own illusions; her sanity crumbling apart. She's starting to hear nonsense.

The Widow is petite.

She hasn't eaten in days.

Her face is freakishly pale, and her cheekbones jut out; skin clinging to her bones.

And she's fast, too.

Before any weapons can be retrieved (before she's completely registered there is an _intruder_ in the barracks), the Widow jumps up, straddles her hips, pins her down and covers her mouth with her hand. Auburn hair falls over her right shoulder. Her dark uniform is shredded. Dried, crusty blood on her cheek.

Eyes startling, unmoving; utterly _still_ and _focussed_.

She isn't a threat.

Her English is poor. She struggles to speak, 'No screams,' she whispers, so quiet; she doesn't dare wake up the other women. 'No screams, okay?'

Russian. She's a Russian soldier.

After a moment, the Widow retreats her hand, and slides off. She stands straight, elegantly; her feet off to an angle; like a dancer waiting to perform.

'You can't be here.'

The Widow shakes her head. Impatient, perhaps. It's hard to tell. 'Food.' She pats her tummy, 'Food?'

'Oh.' There's a slice of bread under her mattress. She doesn't consider the rights and wrongs of her generosity. She retrieves the slice of bread and passes it over. The Widow snatches it, and wolfs it down greedily, tearing at the bread like a lioness with her prey.

It's gone in a matter of seconds. The Widow wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

'_Spasibo_.' Her time is up. The Widow ignores the bread crumbs on the floor. She doesn't glance at the other soldier; she's not important. '_Proshchaniye_.' Her feet are silent. She's delicate and moves with grace and brilliance. The Widow climbs up to the window, slips through and disappears.

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During the war, she's wise and powerful.

A promotion hangs above her head. Like an axe waiting to fall.

Most men are confused by her appearance, her presence. The majority have come to ignore her; they consider her invisible. In a way, that's better than the comments.

One soldier, drunk, reports to duty.

He refuses to listen to her commands. Finds her voice irritating –– disturbing for his sensitive ears.

When his fist crushes her nose, the other soldiers look on, horrified.

Before he can balance himself, she knees him in the groin and whacks her elbow into the lower point of his back. He collapses pathetically and doesn't get up until five hours later.

Nobody helps him.

Her nose is broken, but she brushes off the wound.

She's endured much worse.

Guests are forbidden in the barracks, not that anybody pays attention to the rules.

They just have keep it all hush hush. No noises.

She once brought back a soldier. They were both a little tipsy. He was an okay kisser, but he slobbered, and he was done before she even started. She didn't give him the time of day again. Then there was a woman, slightly older; she loved to socialise with the men, and, yet, one night, found a particular interest in her. They made love, quiet and buried under the thin sheets, until the very early morning.

After that, sex never intrigued her much.

Duty always came first.

And she was _obsessed_ with duty.

The second time she meets the Widow, she's twenty three. Her nose is broken, and she's come to the barracks to clean up the blood.

The Widow doesn't attack her, but the Widow arrives without a knock. When she turns around to grab a towel, she jumps back. The Widow is taller, much taller, and there's more colour to her face. It's the first time she's seen her in the light. She has a heart-shaped face, plump lips, lovely eyes. But her expression is firm and impossible to shatter.

'Is there something you need?'

'I don't mean to surprise you.' Her English is incomparably better, but her Russian accent drips in every word.

'Really?' Sarcasm. 'Excuse me.' She steps past the Widow, and wipes her face with the towel. 'Are you looking for food again?'

The Widow nods her head once. 'What happened to your nose?'

'I was hit.'

'I see.'

'By a delightful gentleman. I'm sure you must share the same frustration as I when it comes to our male co-workers.' She searches for a packet of biscuits in her bag. 'Here you go.' She gives them to the Widow. 'Shortbread. Have you tried these before? They were sent from home.'

'You're British,' the Widow takes the biscuits. '_Interesnyy_.' She glances at her. 'Thank you.'

'Why do you keep coming back here?'

'You're a nice person.' That's all. The Widow blinks, 'What's your name?'

'Carter.'

'Farewell, then, Carter.'

All too soon, the Widow has vanished and Carter is left to remedy her broken nose alone.

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The Widow doesn't drink.

Her American accent is flawless; all soldiers melt around her. The dress is gorgeous: scarlet. _The colour of blood and lust_. Her hips sway with each step, and Carter is, admittedly, a little awed herself. The Widow has hidden her identity with her femininity. Smart, and so simple as well. Carter smiles crookedly and when the Widow comes over to sit with her at the bar, she asks what she'd like to drink.

'Nothing.'

'Why are you here?'

'You seem lonely.'

Carter frowns. '_I_ seem lonely?'

The Widow doesn't respond. She orders a glass of water. The barman gives her a funny look, but does as she wishes. No one can disobey such an image.

'How's the nose?'

'Better. Your appetite?'

The Widow smiles a little, a tiny smile –– but knowing. 'Don't wear your uniform like that when off-duty,' she eyes Carter's jacket. 'It implies too much about you.'

'I'm always on duty. It's the war.'

'It's always the war, Carter. You weren't born _just_ to be disposed of.'

'Fine.' She lowers her glass. 'What does my uniform imply?'

'I don't mean it that way.' The Widow turns in her seat to face her properly. Her bosom is teasing; she's aware of Carter's distracted gaze. The Widow reaches over and unbuttons Carter's jacket. A pleasant sigh escapes Carter's lips and she allows the Widow to slip it off. The Widow neatly folds it onto the bar. And then unbuttons three buttons of her blouse. Her index finger lingers at her revealed, bare flesh, and she smiles again, only a little, not too much. 'You really do leave plenty to the imagination, Carter.' She leans back, and her eyes capture hers.

She's effortlessly seductive.

It's a startling contrast to her usual demeanour.

'There. Now it looks like you're able to let go.'

Carter grabs her drink. She notices a faint cut across Natasha's wrist. 'Who are you?'

'What does it matter who I am?' The Widow trails her finger over the rim of her glass. 'Everybody here is nothing more than a ghost to you. We may all be dead this time next year. Names are just a source of comfort; something to make us feel human again. I don't require a name to feel alive.'

'Your mother must have given you one.'

The Widow holds her gaze. 'You truly are naïve, Carter.'

'And you aren't?'

'Hm.' The Widow downs her water. 'Your defensive nature only proves my claim.'

'Your reluctance to answer my question proves mine.'

The Widow comes closer. Her expression is illegible, and her eyes are not the least bit distracted. All she sees is Carter, and she's analysing every inch of her face, her body, her mannerisms, the way she speaks and how, despite the corpses piling each second, she still smiles frequently. It's an invasion on Carter's mind; she's tackling her.

She's a threat.

But it's impossible to fight her, to move away. The Widow has her captured.

'You love too much.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Your eyes don't suit you.'

Carter cocks a brow. 'Illuminate me.'

'They're too soft. They're warm.' The Widow shakes her head. 'They don't suit a bloodthirsty warrior like yourself.' She shrugs. 'Or, maybe they do? Maybe you're not as bloodthirsty as you come off as? Maybe all of this confidence, this pride and power you show is nothing more than an act. One I certainly enjoy playing along with.' She pauses. 'Am I wrong?'

'Not _wrong_. You intrigue me, though. Clearly you find emotions a hinderance; they scare you. I may not see love or hatred in your eyes; they're too pale. However, I doubt it requires much to break away this _shield_ you obsessively cover yourself with.' Carter places a hand on her folded jacket. 'I struggle to take you seriously when you can't even face your own dilemmas. You're a frightened woman, ma'am, and you refuse to climb out of this trap you've soiled yourself in.'

'Does that offend you?'

Carter's other hand clenches into a fist. 'No. I just find it disappointing.'

'I don't live up to anyone's expectations apart from my own.'

'And I am the same.' Carter takes her jacket and stands to leave. 'You say I am incapable of letting go. Well, maybe you should ask yourself the same. You're haunted by your past and you allow it to eat you alive.' She has to touch her, have her skin beneath her fingertips. The Widow's cheek is soft. 'You need to set yourself free, otherwise you'll die.'

Carter pulls on her jacket and walks past; a wonderful aroma follows after her, and the Widow inhales her sweet, loving scent.

'Yes, but the dead don't die twice.'

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Her friends disappear. Some shot in action, others by infection. One of her female friends suffers Scarlet Fever, and passes away in her arms. The war doesn't end.

The new recruits are fierce, intelligent and ready to walk into Hell.

Carter is their guide.

She doesn't drink for months. Not a drop of alcohol reaches her lips.

At twenty five, Carter is numb and unloved, but her legs continue to carry her, while soldiers and co-workers and friends fall apart around her. Her only fear is that she may be the last one standing. Her commanding officer wants her to spend the afternoon off. In fact, he _commands_ she does, his voice heavy with sin and regret. Carter doesn't object. She knows better.

The barracks are empty.

She pulls away from her jacket, drapes a blanket over her shoulders and writes a letter home.

There's not much left to say.

Maybe it won't be the bullet which kills her in the end.

Maybe it'll be her mind. Her aching sanity and this horrid, dark depression nibbling at her soul.

She's sick of seeing dead soldiers.

God have mercy.

The Widow never knocks. Carter knows she's there, sitting on the edge of her bed, watching her write her letter. She starts to wonder if the Widow is real, if she's just her imagination playing tricks on her. She swallows, signs the letter, folds it neatly into an envelope and returns her equipment into her bag. Standing to her feet, she turns to the Widow.

She wants to be much taller than her in this moment. She wants to control the situation, and she foolishly believes her height will make a difference.

'Does your mother ever miss you?' Carter asks her.

'I don't have a mother.'

'I didn't think you'd come back after our previous conversation.'

'You underestimate me, then.'

Carter doesn't move. 'Your lip is bleeding.'

'I know.' The Widow roughly wipes her palm over her mouth. The blood smears across her cheek. 'I had a little run-in with a guard. He wasn't a problem. Just got in my way.'

'One of _our_ guards?'

'No.'

She's shared only a little of her mission, but it's something. The Widow has hundreds of stories to tell, but very few have the privilege to hear them. 'Your lip is still bleeding.' And it's then Carter realises she's just not as cold as she wishes. The Widow was right –– she is warm and loving (too loving). Her hunger for power collapses, and she kneels down before her, pulls out a tissue to dab away at the blood. The Widow doesn't flinch from her nursing; she's immobile.

'How long has it been since you've been home?'

'A while.'

She moves the tissue away. The Widow's lip is slightly swollen. 'Do you miss home?'

'No.' She's lying, but for the sake of everything else, she has to lie. 'You don't either.' She softens her expression. 'I've heard about Russian spies, like you. You're all dispatched from a school of sorts, located somewhere in Russia. A school which creates human killers. These spies are called Black Widows.' Carter holds the tissue tighter, and lowers her gaze. She can't look the Widow in the eye. 'Are you one of them? Is that why you don't have a name?'

'You know what I am.'

'I don't think I do.'

The Widow rests her hand on her knee. Her other hand reaches over to tip Carter's chin upwards so she can see her face. 'You know, we're not that much different, you and I.'

'I hope that's not true.'

'Do you not want me here?'

Carter does wonder, _really wonder_, if she is real. How can a woman like her exist? So brainwashed, and destroyed and utterly flawless in everything she does. No human should be born _just_ to become a fighter. _Good Christ_. How is that possible? How can the world be so _twisted_? How can it take such a young girl and mutilate her into a terrifying creature?

She brushes the back of her hand across the Widow's cheek. 'You can stay.'

Her fingers fall to her mouth, rest at her chin, hold her, and Carter kisses her wounded lip. She breaks away, just to kiss her again, an open mouthed kiss which sends a shudder of bliss and release through her body. The Widow doesn't retreat. Her lips are surprisingly gentle against her own, and it feels good to have the Widow's mouth on hers, if only for a moment.

Carter's breath tickles the Widow's nose; she's shaking.

It's been a very long time since she's kissed, _loved_, anybody. For all she knows, the Widow is completely new to this strange sensation. Her eyes are still closed when Carter pulls away –– and it is a mistake to pull away, to walk away, to turn her back, and it's just not _her_ either.

Her hand grasps at the Widow's jacket, and she kisses her passionately. The other woman is far more hesitant, if not reluctant at first to take this further. Her hands remain on the mattress as Carter leans closer, her breasts pressed into hers, hand slipping from her jacket. Her arms wrap around the back of her neck, and the Widow slips a light moan, succumbs to Carter's affections entirely.

Just like that, she's hers.

Both hands slip from the mattress and she falls back, gripping Carter's hips in order to balance her.

Carter tastes blood, she tastes dirt, a little sugar, something musky, and wonderful. The Widow's hands are in her hair, back against the mattress, head on the pillow, and her spine arches as sweet kisses are scattered across her tortured, scarred and bloody flesh.

When she comes, the Widow exclaims weakly, body rippling with ecstasy and release. She clings to her, and every barrier she's built around herself all these years is destroyed.

Hidden under the blankets, they kiss again, and in the darkness, Carter see her smile; it's bizarre and gorgeous, and her smile intoxicates her.

The following morning, the Widow is gone.

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1945 and men scream in victory.

After the war, she's still very much the same. Just older.

They demote her. She continues to reach for the nearest branch, and slips, tumbling down, down, down, and her back _cracks_ as it meets the ground.

They dispose of her.

She's tagged a "hero", alongside thousands of men and women who fought.

She never realised how empty the word is.

The Widow doesn't show.

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She finds a lover. He's kind, and he has a cute bump on his nose. He talks and listens to her, and then they go to work, meet again every night to eat, sleep, love and it's all a repetitive cycle. After four months, he confesses he has fallen in love with her.

Carter hates herself for not feeling mutual.

They cut all ties when she is unable to give the response he wants.

She takes a train out of New York. No real destination in mind. She just wants to get off the train when she feels like it, without being ordered to, without anybody breathing down her neck, and without having to pick up the pieces from the war.

Eventually, she has the courage to step onto the platform.

There's a man sitting on a bench, the atmosphere is foggy. There's not much here.

Carter wraps her coat tighter around herself. Shoves her hands into her pockets, and walks along the platform towards the gate.

She walks for two miles, high heels _clack_ing against the cold ground. It's a quaint village, a view of some farms, and houses and trees. She doesn't particularly focus on the view today. Only on the sound of her feet, _clack, clack, clack, clack_, how beautiful her isolation is. There is nobody to disturb her here; she's safe and almost happy.

There's a coffee shop with only one customer inside. He's reading a novel, stirring his drink.

Carter orders a tea. Sits in the chair furthest away from the window.

They don't give her enough milk, so she requests for some more. She stirs the tea, ignores the biscuit. Takes a sip –– it's okay. It'll have to do.

Has it really come to this?

She has fought in the war, stood by injured men, helped train recruits, been by her commanding officer's side; she's a hero, for pete's sake, and she is now sitting in a coffee shop, wanting to complain about how _awful_ her tea tastes! It's humiliating and it makes her angry. Is this what it has truly come to for soldiers like her? Are they just on display to laugh at now?

Carter thinks about the Widow, and wonders if her war has ended too. If she's still sent out for days at a time, if she ever wanders back to the barracks in the hopes of finding Carter there. Carter thinks about the Widow, and wonders if the Widow thinks about her too.

Despite everything, she finishes her tea and even leaves a tip.

As she returns to the train station, Carter still thinks about the Widow, the young woman, dressed in dark uniform, a bloody lip, auburn hair, heart-shaped face, smile––

––and she misses her dreadfully.

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A fortnight passes. She's behind on paperwork, and stays in the office when all of her co-workers have dispersed. It's half past nine when she decides to call it a day. Carter pulls on her coat, files her reports, neatens her desk, and has a sudden urge for a cigarette. Mildly surprised by her immediate desire, Carter searches in her drawer for a packet of cigarettes, and retrieves one.

When she looks up, there's a woman behind her desk.

'Oh.' Carter lowers the cigarette from her mouth. 'Hello.'

'It took me some time to find you.'

'Right. Well, I would have sent you a letter if I knew your address, but, then again, you never stay in one place.'

The Widow has not aged. Her hair is longer, and it's wavy, past her shoulders. Her heart-shaped face remains the same, as do her plump lips and stoic eyes. Nothing has changed.

Carter returns the cigarette. She doesn't want one anymore.

'The war is over,' she remarks.

The Widow squints. 'No, it's not –– don't kid yourself.'

'I thought you were never coming back.'

A chilling silence falls between them. Carter is a little too proud to walk away _just yet_, and, frankly, she _is_ happy to see the Widow after all this time. The Widow's hand presses into the desk, and she doesn't have anything to say; Carter realises she's hurt her.

A pain the Widow doesn't want to express.

'Does someone wait for you at home?'

'Not anymore,' Carter replies bluntly.

The Widow flicks her gaze away momentarily. Straightens. 'You don't belong behind a desk.'

'Please don't lecture me. This is how it is.' Carter bites the inside of her cheek. 'I'm doing what I can.'

She silences the Widow effortlessly.

Neither of them speak again for a little while longer.

Carter glances at her lips; considers kissing them. Her heart flutters, and she stops herself. 'I should go, and I think you should as well.'

'Where?'

'Don't be daft.'

Rain begins to patter against the windows.

The Widow steps in front of her before Carter can escape. 'But I came to see you.' It's unfair how _innocent_ she sounds, how the Widow just _allures_ her so easily. How accessible and open she is before her. Everything Carter thought of the Widow, before the night they shared together, is blurred. She's really not that much of an enigma, not that much of a puzzle.

Not really that frightening.

Just a woman, standing in front of another woman.

Wanting to be loved.

Carter exhales, impatient, frustrated, annoyed at the way things are. She kisses her on the mouth, and a rush of heat envelops her cheeks, and it all comes flooding back. The Widow pushes into her a little, welcoming her affection, and yet welcoming more. They kiss for a second longer, but Carter knows better than to let it last.

She hovers at her lips, and wonders, _hopes_, the Widow will kiss her, take the matter into her own hands.

But the Widow is right; they are very similar.

'Please tell me your name.'

Because it does matter, it is important to Carter; she needs to know her name, needs to associate her with something human and _real_. Needs to know what she feels for this woman isn't pointless and she has not fallen in love with a ghost.

'Natasha,' she replies instantly.

It's a beautiful name.

'Natasha,' she whispers, 'Thank you.'

Her thanks hits like a hundred knives. It's a thanks for whatever it is they had, what little memories they shared together from the war and afterwards. Just a thank you for letting Carter in a little, even if it barely lasted more than ten minutes.

Time is so short when Natasha is here. And when she's not, the hours drag.

It really is unfair.

'You should go home.' Carter breaks their embrace, looks at her, takes whatever she can from this awfully short period, and then walks past her, and out of the office.

The rain merges with her tears and, to her relief, Natasha doesn't follow.

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